


in no particular order

by cirrus (themorninglark)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Kita Shinsuke POV, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27260548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themorninglark/pseuds/cirrus
Summary: He doesn’t know when anything changed at all. All he knows is, he was in between phone booths on the drive into the city, and a folk song about sunflowers was on the radio, and that was when Shinsuke realised he had been looking forward to this, that he had been looking forward to leaving the farm. He had never felt that before. Leaving the farm was an errand of necessity, until it wasn’t.Seven questions and answers about Miya Osamu, in no particular order.
Relationships: Kita Shinsuke/Miya Osamu
Comments: 19
Kudos: 76





	in no particular order

**Author's Note:**

> format loosely inspired by Sarah Kay's poem, "Questions and Answers, In No Particular Order"

_was it sunny the day you met?_

The cup feels like the ocean in his hands. He has come all this way, after all; the truck is in its usual place at the back of the shop under the dogwood trees and it is summer, he is breathing in summer and his skin is breathing in heat. So Shinsuke is warm all over and here is Osamu, pouring iced tea into his cup. _I went to a craft fair to look for tableware._ He’s talking like he doesn't know just how he sounds right now, the words spilling over each other to leave his mouth, the way he sounds when he starts telling Shinsuke about vinegar and mirin, about the beautiful yellowtail he handpicked from the fish market this morning. Listening to him is like standing under a waterfall. It makes Shinsuke want to close his eyes. He takes a sip of tea. _The woman who sold me my plates invited me to her pottery class. So I went. But I was awful at it._ Osamu smiles, looks down at his hands, palms up. Shinsuke doesn't know much about grace, or beauty, only that when those hands shape food, they move like a field of grass in the wind. He sets the cup down on the counter. It’s a little wobbly, but it makes a good sound. A solid sound.

 _Make me something_ , he says.

_What do you want?_

_Anything. Anything you make will be good._

_how many sugars in the coffee?_

He doesn’t know when anything changed at all. All he knows is, he was in between phone booths on the drive into the city, and a folk song about sunflowers was on the radio, and that was when Shinsuke realised he had been looking forward to this, that he had been looking forward to leaving the farm. He had never felt that before. Leaving the farm was an errand of necessity, until it wasn’t. The road is too long, too far to go, and at the same time it is exactly as long as it needs to be, to make it all mean something to him. The distance between his farm and Onigiri Miya. Shinsuke measures it in power lines, in acres of farmland, in the number of times he gazes out of the window and thinks of that awning. The shop on the corner, the silhouette in the window. In the early morning before he opens for the day, Osamu moves like he’s in his own world. Shinsuke rests a hand on the sliding door. His breath is a whisper on the glass. The grass rustles beneath his feet. This is as loud as he can bring himself to be right now. It is enough for Osamu to look up and see him, and let him in.

_when did everything change?_

His scarf is the colour of the pond in winter. A New Year’s pond, and if Shinsuke stood at the brink, he might see the whole year’s memories shimmering back at him. Exhaling, all at once. Shinsuke finds him easily in the crowd at the shrine, among the birdsong and wishes. They put their hands together and bow their heads at the same time. When he asks Osamu what he prayed for, and Osamu smiles and says, _the same thing as you,_ Shinsuke is resolute. He is not so easy to bait as all that. They walk down a cobbled path lined with pine trees. There, Osamu brushes the snow off Shinsuke’s shoulder, says, _a good harvest for you is good rice for me. Why wouldn’t I pray for it?_

And why wouldn’t he? And had this day not dawned on the wing of a sparrow at his windowsill, the light of a faded moon, still a sliver in the sky when he opened his eyes? And had Shinsuke not pressed his fingers to his lips, thought of tomorrow, and the day after, and all the harvests yet to come?

_is celadon your favourite colour, now?_

Maybe this one happens at a bus stop. Maybe it’s the kind of day that feels like a dust mote, suspended in a sunbeam, floating in time. Just one little speck. Surely, no one will notice if it never falls to the ground. Is it afternoon? Is it evening? Is that a reflection or the first summer dusklight, upon that leaf on the tree overhead? Shinsuke’s got his jacket on his back, because spring lingers still in between the languid hours, and it’s not quite warm enough yet to take it completely off. Osamu is at the vending machine, clinking coins in his palm as he takes his time to consider all the options very seriously, for they have time, they have time, and maybe he buys two boxes of orange juice and hands one to Shinsuke, and together they sit side by side and drink, and don’t say anything at all. Maybe this one doesn’t always happen at a bus stop. Maybe they’re in a field surrounded by gold and earth, or in a house with wooden floorboards and sunny rafters. Maybe Shinsuke has bottled this silence and wears it round his neck like a pendant. Maybe it is wherever Osamu is, always.

_what next, after victory?_

Second year, after training on a Monday afternoon. It was raining. The light above their table in the family restaurant was the same pale yellow as the signboard outside and flickered every three seconds. Shinsuke was finishing his bowl of tonjiru, and Osamu was tearing open his second packet of sugar, and there’ll be a third before he’s done with his coffee. Years later, Shinsuke will remember. He will be standing with a teaspoon in his hand and a bowl of sugar by his elbow on the kitchen counter, and he will think: that must have been one of the first things he learned about Osamu, and then, unlearned. He will recall another day two years later, when Osamu had stayed the night at the farm after the hours had slipped away from them, between recipe testing and helping to clean the vegetables. Shinsuke had made them coffee, and Osamu had put nothing at all in his. _People change._ It is the sort of thought, Shinsuke has heard it said, that some find unsettling. That the person you hold in your heart is always shifting, always moving forward. He puts the spoon back in the sugar bowl. The kettle is on the boil, the floors are swept, and Osamu will be here soon. It is because they have both changed that Osamu will be here soon. Shinsuke goes to the door and opens it wide.

_did you remember your jacket?_

In the corridor between the locker room and the exit sign, Shinsuke hears someone call his name. A little winded, a little euphoric, a little luminous. _I’ll meet you outside_ , he tells Aran, and he takes two steps to Osamu’s ten to meet him somewhere less and more than halfway all at once. Osamu takes a moment to catch his breath. He opens his mouth. _You came. You saw us. We did it. That was my last match, and I know how you felt now._ He says one of these things, or maybe several or all of them, and Shinsuke can only nod and know there are no words he can say back. _I’m sweaty and gross, but I’m going to hug you anyway._ But Shinsuke moves first, and wraps his arms round Osamu, and hides his smile in the neckline crease of a black jersey. It rests against his cheek, a homespun kindness that feels like a memory from long ago.

_will you be happy?_

The midday sun is a patient dance upon the courtyard, warming the back of Shinsuke’s hand as he shields his eyes. Two pairs of footsteps are coming his way. One passes right by him like a whirlwind, takes all the steps into the gym at once, like he’ll fall to pieces if he doesn’t keep moving; the other slows, comes to a stop in front of Shinsuke. He speaks more softly and more firmly than he walks. He asks, _is this the volleyball club_. Shinsuke looks up, and answers.

**Author's Note:**

> watering the osakita crops bit by bit ♥ [@lightveils on Twitter](https://twitter.com/lightveils)


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